love

I am puzzled by my husband.  Sometimes I sneak peeks at him across the top of my book as I pretend I am reading, trying to figure out what happened, how I ended up married to him.  He makes no sense.  I am watching his hair turn silver.  (This surprises me too.  My own hair is not turning silver, rather growing platinum blonde streaks.)   His hair is short, his nails are clean.  He eats a lot of peanut butter.  He listens to terrible music composed by machines, comprised of thumping noises and electronic beeps. He says this helps him think.  He drives a stupid penis car.  He reads science fiction and fantasy books. He plays video games.

It doesn't make sense because he was supposed to be a poet.  Maybe a novelist.  I would have made a good wife-of-a-novelist.  He was supposed to be interested in growing organic vegetables in the garden and composting and composing.  He was supposed to have long hair and ratty facial hair and ink stains on this fingertips.  Wear some flannel, man.  And he was supposed to smoke once in awhile.  Not excessively.  But enough that I could get away with doing it once in awhile too.   And he was supposed to read and discuss novels with me, and enjoy coffee shops and want to build things in the garage made from reclaimed wood.  He was supposed to talk to me about sustainability.

I dunno.  When you try to decide who someone else is supposed to be you're probably wrong.  Maybe I don't even know who I am supposed to be.  Strange that this stranger fits me so well. 

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